


Weak

by heelnev



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Masturbation, Public Sex, in a way i suppose, no one but the two of them had any reason to be in the locker room at that time because i said so, takes place post nev vs mustafa on the july 3 2017 ep of raw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 19:40:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17453054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heelnev/pseuds/heelnev
Summary: All it took was that one show of dominance from Neville, and Mustafa was completely thrown off. He was only able to get a few more hits in before ultimately he was “put in his place”, as the King would so eloquently put it. Mustafa had been competing for years, and he’d found his way out of tighter spots in the past, so this should be an easy fix.But at the same time, Mustafa knew that no matter what, he was always going to be like putty in the King’s hands. Like it or not, he was weak for him.





	Weak

**Author's Note:**

> so rmr when i said that the next fic i upload was gonna be a preview of sorts for the new multichapter fic i've got in the works?? this isn't it unfortunately, i've been struggling a lot motivation-wise for that whole au so i haven't really gotten much done with it :(
> 
> howwwwEVER i DID get inspired to write this new fic after being sick for a few days with nothing else better to do but think abt ship bullshit, so i guess you could argue that that cold was a blessing in disguise. hope ya like it!!

Three times. Mustafa and Neville had faced each other in one-on-one competition a grand total of three times. Each time, both men gave it everything they had, with Mustafa in particular using practically every move in his arsenal in an attempt to bring the King down. Each time, Mustafa put together what he believed was the _perfect_ strategy, one that he figured was _sure_ to work.

And each time, Mustafa fucking lost.

Coming off of the third loss, Mustafa was stewing alone in the locker room, pacing back and forth and running his hands through his hair. He was taking deep breaths, due to both his usual post-match fatigue and his attempts to quell the anger that was brewing deep inside of him. He kept replaying the finish of the match over and over and over again in his mind, where Neville locked him in the Rings of Saturn _once a-fucking-gain_ — a situation he was _all_ too familiar with.

What was it going to take to finally get one-up on him? What did Mustafa have to do? He’d tried everything, and none of it worked. How was he supposed to finally put the King in his place and ascend to the throne if he couldn’t even beat him in a regular non-title match? How did he plan on ever winning a high-stakes match against him if he couldn’t get the job done _period_?

He slumped down onto a bench, putting his head in his hands, letting out a frustrated sigh. The shameful part about it all was that this time around, as much as he’d like to pretend it was all a complete mystery to him, Mustafa knew _exactly_ what had gone wrong. It wasn’t just that his new “foolproof” strategy had failed, as it very much did, but there was something else that happened during this match in particular that threw him off. Something that had distracted him _just_ enough.

He was in the middle of the ring, on all fours, Neville standing in front of him. Mustafa was trying to compose himself, hopefully get back to his feet before things got even worse for him, but that was proving to be difficult. He’d already sustained so much damage in the last few moments of the match. He realized that Neville was beginning to bend down, and he braced himself for the inevitable knock-out blow.

But that wasn’t what happened.

Instead, Neville chose to take Mustafa’s chin in his hand, angling his face up so they could be eye-to-eye. Neville had this… almost _wicked_ grin on his face, like he was having _far_ too much fun toying with his opponent. Had this been anyone else, Mustafa would have been furious, and he no doubt would have found the strength to fight back against such a display of arrogance.

But it _wasn’t_ just “anyone else”. This was the _King_ , and such a move had given Mustafa some… _interesting_ thoughts. Ones that he’d admittedly had about Neville a few times before, and ones that he most definitely should not have been thinking about while in the middle of a match. And though it was true that Mustafa had managed to have a small comeback, he still came up short — largely because of how fast his mind was racing.

Mustafa needed a find a way to… not do _that_ , to put it simply. All it took was that _one_ show of dominance from Neville, and he was completely thrown off. He was only able to get a few more hits in before ultimately he was “put in his place”, as the King would so eloquently put it. Mustafa had been competing for years, and he’d found his way out of tighter spots in the past, so this should be an easy fix.

But at the same time, Mustafa knew that no matter what, he was _always_ going to be like putty in the King’s hands. Like it or not, he was _weak_ for him. He could act like he thought that Neville was a slimy, no-good, crooked competitor as much as he’d like. He could pretend like he wasn’t the slightest bit interested in him, or anything he might have to offer.

But he knew that it wasn’t true. It was hard for him to act like he didn’t give a shit when he’d spent multiple nights thinking about how thick his thighs looked whenever he had someone in a hold, and about how big his biceps were, and about his _abs_ —

“Dammit…!” Mustafa slammed a fist down onto the bench, putting the other one up to his mouth and biting down on it. He was letting those images infiltrate his mind again, which was the _last_ thing he should be doing at that moment. He shut his eyes as he tried to force himself to think about literally anything else — not about Neville’s chest, or his ass, or how damn _good_ he looked panting and sweaty after a match… Shit, wait, he was supposed to be getting _rid_ of those thoughts! Why was he still having them?!

This was bad. And the situation was only getting worse as Mustafa found it increasingly more and more difficult _not_ to think about that one time he accidentally caught a glimpse of Neville coming out of the showers, dripping wet, towel hanging loosely around his waist, almost invitingly -- fuck, _again_?! Why was he so terrible at this?!

Mustafa moved his hand from the bench to the bulge that was growing at the front of his tights, and he pushed down, touching himself to relieve the mounting pressure. He couldn’t help the little breathy noise that escaped him, and he bit down on his lip in an attempt to silence himself. If in the middle of the ring during a Monday Night Raw taping wasn’t the place for him to be having risque thoughts about Neville, then the locker room at the same taping -- empty or not -- most definitely wasn’t the place for him to get himself off. The risk of someone walking in was far too high for his liking. Whatever it was he planned on doing, it could wait a little while longer until he was in the privacy of his hotel room.

He decided to once again try the “think about anything else” approach, this time in the showers. He’d still yet to wash up from the match, so perhaps a hot shower would do him good, allow him to think about more important things ( _not_ his co-worker’s body). He peeled off his attire and searched in his bag for a towel, flinging it over his shoulder. He wouldn’t be long -- a few minutes at most, and then he could get dressed again and re-join his fellow wrestlers in catering, like he hadn’t suddenly gone off by himself.

He’d settled on a showerhead in the back of the room, turning the hot water on. It was probably a little _too_ hot, but that wasn’t important to him. It actually felt soothing, especially after taking such a beating (physically _and_ mentally). Plus, it provided him with a distraction, which was exactly what he was looking for. Anything was preferable to having more confusing daydreams.

As he began to wash, he let his mind wander to a more preferable thought -- that Sunday’s pay-per-view. He was still questioning the “Great Balls of Fire” name, but it didn’t really matter to him _too_ much. If anything, he found it amusing, especially considering the reaction it was getting online. Everyone was just as confused as he was.

What was on the card was far more intriguing to him than the name. There was an ambulance match, and even an iron man match -- a tag team one, no less. He would definitely make sure to watch those, along with the rest of the show of course. (Not like he had much of a choice, anyway, given that he was required to be backstage during it.)

Neville was also set to compete. And Mustafa would be watching him, in those tight little trunks of his, wrestle Akira Tozawa. Because it was a Cruiserweight Championship match. And he was the Cruiserweight Champion. That was how it worked.

Without thinking he made the water hotter, squeezing his eyes shut. There he was, once again thinking about the one person he was supposed to be pushing _out_ of his mind. _Focus, Mustafa! For once in your damn life!_ He scolded himself. There _had_ to be something else he could think about, something that didn’t include Neville in any capacity.

Everything work-related obviously involved Neville, so he couldn’t think about any more pay-per-views, or matches, or _anything_. What about his personal life? He could think about his friends, maybe! Fun things that they’ve gotten up to in the past, and potential things they could do in the future! It seemed like a great idea, and definitely something that would keep Mustafa’s slowly returning arousal at bay.

But of course, given that a good number of his closest friends were also wrestlers, this brought him right back to square one. Right back to work. Right back to the memory of him in the middle of the ring, completely at the King’s mercy.

When he opened his eyes again he realized that the room was now more filled with steam than it was previously, making it difficult to see. He didn’t need to have perfect vision, however, to know that he was once again _very_ hard, and this fact annoyed the living hell out of him. This shower was supposed to be his escape, but instead he was once again having the “Should I or shouldn’t I jerk off?” debate with himself -- only difference was that this time, he was wet.

There was no one around, was there? He kept trying to justify it to himself as he weighed his options. At worst, someone could walk in on him, which would be humiliating. Especially if he were to get loud, which he was prone to doing from time to time. He would be on the receiving end of some serious teasing.

But everyone was off watching the show, right? He’d been alone in the locker room for all that time, pouting because of his loss. If he was able to go that long without someone walking in, who’s to say he wouldn’t _continue_ to be alone for just a few minutes longer? He could surely get away with it if he just _did it_ , couldn’t he? The more time he spent worrying, the less time he would have to himself.

Mustafa took one last look over his shoulder, peering through the steam, ensuring to the best of his ability that no one had snuck into the shower while he was distracted. There was no one there, and there was also no one in the locker room area from what he could tell. Now was the best, if not the only, time. He took in a deep breath through his nose, shaking his head once he made his final decision. Taking his cock into his hand, he muttered a quick “fuck it” before starting to slowly move his hand back and forth.

Now allowing his mind to wander freely, he let some of his previous thoughts regarding Neville return to the forefront of his mind. He could still feel Neville’s hand on his chin, could still feel his gaze piercing him -- what if they found themselves in that situation again? What would Mustafa do if he was once again on his hands and knees, in the presence of the King? The thought alone was causing his excitement to grow even further.

But what if it were slightly different? What if it were just the two of them, no crowd watching them? What would Neville have planned for him if they were all alone in that ring, no one around to interrupt or stop them? He would probably take his sweet time, stripping Mustafa’s gear off piece-by-piece until he was left with nothing, letting his hands roam all over his body the whole time.

Mustafa had to stifle a moan as his little fantasy resumed. What would Neville do next? Would he continue to touch him? No, wait, would he tie him up in the ropes first? Yes, that would make sense. Just as he would to an opponent, he would tangle Mustafa’s arms up in the ring ropes, though he would have _much_ different intentions than he would have if this were a match.

And _then_ he would go right back to teasing him. He would run his hands over Mustafa’s chest, eventually stopping them once they reached his hips. He would lean down to suck on his neck -- perhaps he would even start _biting_ . Gently at first, only to go harder, per request. Neville would mark him up, and make Mustafa _his_.

Mustafa’s strokes grew faster as the one touching him became Neville in his mind, his mental image of him whispering all sorts of things in his ear. Things about how he _deserved_ this, about how he’d worked so _hard_ lately, and how he’d earned himself a reward. And who better to give it to him than the King? In truth, Neville was the _only_ one that Mustafa wanted to give him said reward, seeing as he was entirely the reason why he was even in his current position -- both vulnerable in the ring in his mind, and on the brink of ecstacy in reality.

Mustafa knew that he was close. He also knew that it was probably _far_ too soon for him to be coming, but he didn’t really give much of a shit in that moment. What was important was that he _did it_ , just got it the hell over with so he could move on with his night. With that in mind, he moved his hand even faster, running his free one through his hair and pushing away the wet strands that had fallen in his face.

“A-Aah…” He panted. In his head, Neville was right up against him, hot breath on his ear, whispering such sweet things. The closer he got to climaxing, the more Mustafa slipped into his fantasy, and he couldn’t help but groan, “Ah, fuck, _Neville_ \--”

“What the _fuck_?!”

Mustafa gasped, and he was instantly snapped out of his little trance by those sharp words. He practically jumped out of his skin, placing both hands on the wall to steady himself, almost bumping his head on it in the process. He knew that voice. He fucking _knew_ that _voice_ . Sure, that in itself wasn’t an extraordinary fact, seeing as it’d be a bit concerning if he _didn’t_ recognize it -- but it was so staggering to him because he recognized it as being one belonging to the last person who should be walking in on him.

It was Neville. It was Neville’s. Fucking. Voice.

As a sense of dread welled up inside of him, Mustafa slowly looked over his shoulder, towards the doorway to the showers. There, through the steam, he could see Neville. He was looking right at him, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. Though it was difficult to tell due to the fog, Mustafa could assume from his surprised reaction that he wore an _equally_ surprised expression on his face. He couldn’t blame him, given that he’d just interrupted quite the scene.

The two stared at each other for what felt like an eternity (when it was most likely only a few seconds or so). Mustafa debated with himself whether he should be the one that broke the silence, and ultimately he decided that would, but the only thing he was able to say was, “U-Uh… Heya, King...”

Neville didn’t respond right away. It seemed like he was still trying to process what in the fresh hell was going on, and Mustafa’s _totally_ smooth greeting had truly helped (not). He was kicking himself for even opening his mouth at all. It was his mouth that had landed him in this undesirable situation in the first place, and chances were it was about to get him in even more trouble.

Eventually, though, Neville entered, heading towards a showerhead that was fairly close to the exit (but also much closer to Mustafa than he expected). “You, uh... alright?” He finally said, turning the water on.

Mustafa was surprised that Neville hadn’t started cursing at him, or said anything that was really _rude_ . “Y-Yeah!” He forced a big smile to his face. “Yeah, I’m fine! Hah. I was just, uh, frustrated after our match. Tryin’ to clear my head a bit.” Not a total lie -- he was definitely trying to clear his head of _something_.

“I kicked your ass _that_ badly?”

“Sure did!”

“I… see.”

The conversation fizzled out after that. Mustafa looked away from Neville and back towards the wall, shutting his eyes again and resting his head against the tiles. He was a fucking moron. Had he actually decided to just _wait_ until he’d gotten back to the hotel, he wouldn’t have been caught -- no, not just caught, but caught by the same person he was fucking _fantasizing_ about. What the hell was wrong with him?!

Mustafa’s heart was still pounding in his chest. He was utterly humiliated, cheeks red from both the hot water and the embarrassment. How did he plan on looking Neville in the eye after this? He would never be able to. Neville had never exactly given him the time of day before, so it wouldn’t be a drastic change or anything, but at least they could bear to fucking look at one another. _Not anymore._

Then again, Neville hadn’t said anything about what he’d seen. Did he even see _anything_ ? For all Mustafa knew, maybe he only caught the tail end of it, and he actually believed that Mustafa was just frustrated because of his loss. It was still odd, seeing as the first thing he witnessed upon entering the shower _was_ his opponent groaning out his name, but it was definitely better than Neville knowing the full truth.

But it was also possible that Neville saw _everything_ . It was possible that, right after Mustafa looked away from the door and started to touch himself, Neville entered, and he caught _every_ little gasp and moan that escaped his lips. He knew _exactly_ what Mustafa was doing, and this was sure to bite him in the ass eventually.

Yet that was only assuming that he actually knew what was happening. There was still that _slight_ chance that he didn’t, and Mustafa was planning on clinging to it like he’d never clung to anything else before in his life.

He wanted to leave, since his shower was more or less over, but he decided to wait for Neville to finish first. If he bolted out of there not long after he was interrupted, then Neville might get suspicious and wonder what the rush was. The last thing he wanted to do was further explain his unusual behavior, lest he say yet another stupid thing.

Keeping his eyes shut, Mustafa ran his hands over his body and through his hair, acting as if he were genuinely washing himself off. He listened closely for the sound of Neville turning the water off, which hadn’t come yet. What was taking him so long? Locker room showers were technically only supposed to be a quick rinse, so why was Neville just… loitering?

...Although, Mustafa truly wasn’t in any position to judge someone for doing something _other_ than cleaning themselves while in the shower.

After a few more minutes of fake washing, Mustafa finally heard the sound he’d been waiting to hear -- the squeak of the faucet. Neville was finished, though Mustafa kept his eyes shut, still trying to act like he wasn’t interested in the duration of his co-worker’s shower. He only opened them once it seemed like Neville was gone. Sure enough, a glance over his shoulder confirmed that Mustafa did indeed once more have the room all to himself. He let out a sigh of relief that at long last, the awkward moment was over.

It was only when Mustafa turned off his own shower that he realized an entirely new problem had taken the place of the old one.

His towel was gone.

He was _so_ sure he’d hung it right next to him, on the nearest wall hook. Did he forget to bring it with him? He couldn’t have -- he distinctly remembered bringing it along. Where had it gone? He looked on the floor, hoping that maybe it had just fallen, but no. It was nowhere to be seen.

When was the last time he had it? It was definitely there when he first came in, and it was there when he “started”, for lack of a better term. He couldn’t remember for certain, but it _might_ have been there when Neville walked in--

Wait, _Neville_. Could he have…?

There was no way. Mustafa had been standing right there the entire time. There was no way Neville could snatch his towel right off the hook without him noticing. Especially since he’d been keeping an ear out for the sound of Neville turning the water off. He couldn’t have missed it, could he?

Then again, he _was_ pretty distracted. He was so lost in his own thoughts, panicking over whether or not Neville had heard him pleasuring himself. Though he had absolutely no idea what to make of it, it was entirely possible that Neville _had_ crept over to his side of the room when he had his eyes shut, and that he _did_ swipe the towel and leave the room with it. Mustafa hadn’t opened his eyes until he was positive that Neville was gone, after all.

Mustafa thought over his next move. There was a chance that Neville was still in the locker room, with or without his towel. Either Mustafa stood there the rest of the night out of fear of yet another awkward interaction between him and the King, or he bit the bullet and just left the room. The former seemed preferable, seeing as he truly did _not_ know what he would say if Neville had indeed been the culprit, but it was also unrealistic. He was dripping wet, and starting to get cold. Like it or not, the latter was his only option.

Mustafa kept his gaze fixed towards the ground as he headed into the locker room area, making a beeline for his bag. He unzipped it and dug around inside. What did he even bring with him that he could easily change into? He had to have a t-shirt and shorts in there somewhere, things that he didn’t mind getting a little wet--

“Lookin’ for somethin’, lad?”

Of course. Mustafa had barely been in the room for more than a few seconds before he heard that same voice from earlier. His grip on his bag tightened as his head swiveled in the direction that it had come from. Neville was leaning up against the lockers on the far side of the room. One hand was holding up the towel that was around his waist, thumb hooked on it. The other hand was a second towel, one that was undoubtedly Mustafa’s.

“Why do you have that?” Mustafa asked, trying his damndest to sound intimidating. “Give it back.”

“What?” Neville’s lips were pursed, in what appeared to be an attempt at feigned innocence. “Is it a _crime_ to have it?”

“Well, technically _no_ , but… it’s mine.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “And I… kinda need it. Like, now.”

“Ah.” Neville’s gaze shifted downwards, and Mustafa felt his face go hot as he was reminded of the fact that he was very much fucking naked. Their eyes met again a second later, before Mustafa could say anything, and Neville said, “You’re right about that. You’re totally saturated.”

“Y… Yeah. So, can I have it back?”

“Well, if ya really _need_ it…” Neville rolled his eyes. “I suppose you can have it back. I’m in a generous mood.”

Mustafa wasn’t sure what to make of Neville’s use of “suppose”, seeing as it was his own towel and he didn’t _need_ permission to get it back, but he chose not to comment on it. That would prolong this conversation even further. “Thank--”

“Or…” Neville interrupted him before he could finish his sentence. He took a few steps forward, and Mustafa felt his heartrate pick up just a tad.

“Or…?” He echoed.

Neville took one end of the towel in each hand, suddenly flinging it around Mustafa’s shoulders and using it to pull him closer. Mustafa yelped at this, though he made no attempt to get away, instead allowing his forehead to rest up against Neville’s. They were so fucking _close_ \-- Mustafa could feel their damp torsos slicking together, and he swallowed. Neville had this _look_ in his eyes, one that was exciting him more than it probably should have.

“Or… you could let me dry you off?” Neville’s voice was a whisper now. “It’s the least I could do, seeing as I’m the reason you’re so… frustrated.”

Something about the way Neville uttered that last word sent a shiver down Mustafa’s spine. By “frustrated”, how did he mean it? Did he mean to say that he bought Mustafa’s previous story about being angry over his loss? Or did he mean the other, very _different_ definition of the word? Given his current actions, the latter seemed more likely, but...

Wait, why was Mustafa so focused on _that_ ? Far more unusual than Neville’s choice of terminology was the fact that he was acting this way in the first place. He couldn’t confirm whether or not Neville had always been this much of a flirt, but regardless it made little sense that he would suddenly start behaving in such a way towards _him_. The two had just been bitter enemies only a few moments before, out in the ring, and now Neville was offering to dry him off. What prompted this?

...Of course, seeing as Mustafa _was_ quite literally just about to cum to the thought of Neville, he wasn’t exactly in a position to judge _any_ abrupt change in character.

“I-I, um…” Mustafa cleared his throat, nodding his head. “S-Sure, if that’s what you wanna do. I don’t mind.”

Neville grinned at that, almost the same way he had during their match earlier. He moved the towel up to Mustafa’s hair, moving it in slow circles. “You’ve got lovely hair, you know that?” He commented. “Looks even better when it’s all wet like this.”

“Uh… thank you.” Mustafa wanted to add something about how Neville’s _everything_ looked a thousand times better when _he_ was wet, but he bit his tongue. This situation didn’t need any more help being strange.

Neville moved the towel down lower. He took his sweet time, taking in the sight of his upper body, eyes raking over his chest -- his tongue poked out of his mouth as he did this, swiping over his lower lip. He did the same when he moved on to Mustafa’s arms, going intentionally slow, apparently enjoying the feel of his biceps under the fabric.

And then Neville got down on his knees, rubbing down Mustafa’s thighs. His face, his fucking _mouth_ , was far closer to Mustafa’s crotch than he _ever_ thought it would be. Though Neville didn’t _say_ anything about the fact that Mustafa was clearly growing more and more excited by the moment, his gaze shifted back and forth between the work he was doing and his arousal, which only made Mustafa blush. If he was trying not to make it _too_ obvious how much he was enjoying this, he was doing a terrible fucking job.

The silence was beginning to get to Mustafa. Why hadn’t Neville said anything yet? What was he thinking? He wondered how much longer this was going to go on, but he didn’t have to worry about that for very long, as Neville finally spoke up. Still looking down and away from Mustafa’s face, he suddenly asked, “Do you like me, Mustafa?”

It was a loaded fucking question, far more than Neville probably realized -- or maybe he did have an inkling. Who the hell knew what went through the King’s mind. Likewise, who the hell knew what was going on in _Mustafa’s_ mind. The man himself barely even understood it, along with his rapidly changing feelings about Neville.

“Not sure how to respond to that,” Mustafa replied simply as he stared straight ahead.

“I’d suggest _honestly_.”

“I-- Nn…” Mustafa paused. Should he really be upfront about this sort of thing? He was hardly able to accept it himself, so how would Neville be able to handle it?

Neville looked up to him at his hesitance. “I assume the answer is a resounding ‘yes’, given the scene I walked in on a few moments ago, but…”

Mustafa sensed the feeling of dread that he’d experienced back when Neville entered the showers starting to return to him. So he _had_ overheard… Mustafa should have known that it was wishful thinking to assume that he’d gotten away with it. Nevertheless, he still tried to deny it, claiming, “I-I wasn’t doing anything--”

“Ali, _please_ ,” Neville interrupted, rolling his eyes. “I’m not stupid. I know exactly what you were doing.”

Mustafa was at a loss for words. He swallowed, brow furrowed. “I-I’m… I’m so sorry.”

“You’re _sorry_? For what?”

“For… Y’know… _that_.” He fidgeted nervously. “It… I-It won’t happen again, I swear. I was just a moment of weakness, and…” He trailed off, unsure of how to continue. No matter which way he tried to spin it, there was nothing he could say that would make Neville any less pissed over the situation.

But he was surprised when Neville suddenly chuckled. “Oh my God, you think I’m mad at you?” He asked. “Seriously?”

Mustafa blinked down at him, completely caught off guard by this reaction. Of all the ones he’d expected, this was _not_ one of them. “Aren’t you? You seemed pretty… _surprised_ when you first walked in on me.”

“Well, duh. Any man would be surprised to find out that their co-worker was just jerking off to the thought of them. But I’m far from being mad, Ali…” Neville tossed the towel aside, onto the floor. His voice was low as he continued. “In fact, I _liked_ it.”

“Did you…?” As Mustafa said this, Neville began to slowly trail his hands up and down his thighs, causing him to nip on his lip. After having spent so much time that evening fantasizing about it, Mustafa was _finally_ getting to feel Neville’s touch.

But something wasn’t sitting right with him. Mustafa’s eyes flicked over towards the door, which someone could come walking through at quite literally any moment. Mustafa wanted to relish in the feeling of Neville’s hands on him, but he couldn’t -- not when he knew it was possible for someone to catch them in the act. How would either one of them even begin to explain this?

Neville followed his gaze once he’d realized that Mustafa had gone quiet. “Door’s locked,” he said.

“It is?”

“Yeah. I locked it earlier, before I showered. Didn’t want anybody interrupting us.”

“Ah. Smart move.” It took Mustafa a moment, but the reality of what Neville just said hit him. “Wait, you locked it _before_ you went in the shower?”

“That’s what I just said, isn’t it?”

“But-- But we, we weren’t…” He was struggling to get the words out. “So you walked in, overheard me, locked the door, and _then_ went to go wash up.”

“Yes.”

“How did you know you and I were gonna… Y’know…” He laughed, a little nervously. “End up like this?”

“Well… I knew when I first walked in and heard you that I wanted to say _something_ to you about it. And I kinda figured that one thing would end up leading to another… so I took all the necessary precautions.” He capped off his explanation with a shrug.

Mustafa nodded slowly at this. It made sense, in a way, that Neville would think along these lines. If he knew that Mustafa was so aroused, _and_ he later learned that he was so aroused _because of him_ , it was understandable that he’d want to address it one way or another. Locking up was a good move.

But that didn’t mean that Mustafa completely understood what the fuck had gone down in the last few minutes. For starters, why did Neville care so much? Why was he choosing to do _this_ rather than just straight up mock him? This change in attitude was still very much perplexing, and the fact that he himself was all of a sudden this willing to go along with this plan was even more so.

“It’s…” Mustafa started. “It’s not that I don’t want to. Don’t think for even a second that _that’s_ why I’m actin’ all weird about it. It’s just so… _random_ to me.”

“Random?” Neville responded as he got to his feet.

“You and me, we’re not friends. Never have been. And yeah, I can admit that I think you’re a good looking guy -- a fact I’m sure you’re _very_ aware of at this point -- but… I never thought we would ever find ourselves in this position. Guess I’m a little confused.”

Neville frowned. “Mustafa. If you have any misgivings about this at all, then we don’t have to do anything. We can go our separate ways, and we can forget all about this. I won’t say a word to anyone.”

“You won’t?”

“No. I would never. I can be a proper bastard at times, but I wouldn’t go _that_ far.”

Mustafa gazed into Neville’s eyes. As far as he could tell, he was being sincere. Typically, whenever Neville made any kind of promise to someone, he had this one specific look on his face -- shifty eyes, and a smirk on his lips. His expression never really matched the words that were coming out of his mouth. But this time around, Mustafa didn’t see any of that.

He was being genuine.

“I’m leaving this entirely up to you,” Neville went on. “You were the one that technically started this whole thing with your little performance in the showers, after all. If you want me to help you out, then tell me. And if you don’t, then again, _tell_ me. Choice is yours.”

All Mustafa needed to do was tell him what he wanted. It truly was _that_ simple. If he wanted Neville to stop, then he just needed to say so, and they would both forget that any of this even happened. And if he wanted to do _more_ , then he needed to tell him as well…

...Or, perhaps, maybe he could _show him_ instead…

Mustafa suddenly reached for the towel around Neville’s waist, hands fumbling as he tried to remove it -- a move that made Neville laugh. “Ah, is that a ‘yes’, Mustafa?” He asked.

Mustafa didn’t say anything at first, instead far more preoccupied with removing and throwing aside the towel. Once it was off, his eyes were immediately drawn to the hardening length between Neville’s legs. His mouth went dry, and he looked back up to Neville, meeting his gaze, pleading, “Neville, _please_ …”

Neville didn’t need to hear any more than that. He put his hands on Mustafa’s shoulders and pushed him backwards, up against one of the lockers. Their lips met, and Mustafa hummed into his mouth. The more passionate the kiss grew, the more Mustafa’s _desire_ grew, and his hands slid up Neville’s back and tangled in his hair.

Neville pulled away a moment later, pressing their foreheads together, hands now on either side of Mustafa’s head. “Tell me what you want me to do,” he said, voice husky. “Or, would you rather _I_ decide?”

“You decide,” Mustafa replied.

“In that case…” He gave Mustafa another kiss. When he spoke again, his voice was slow. “I want you to get down, on the ground. On your hands and knees.”

Mustafa’s lips parted at the request, clearly a little surprised by Neville’s straightforwardness, but he didn’t protest, more than willing to do it. “You might wanna spread your towel out first,” Neville added as he took a step back. “Unless you wanna make a mess all over this already fuckin’ disgusting floor.”

“Y… Yeah, you’re right.” Mustafa looked around and quickly snatched up his towel before going to work spreading it out. He shot a quick look in Neville’s direction -- he was leaning back on the lockers, watching Mustafa’s every move, ghost of a smile on his face.

Once Mustafa was down on the floor, Neville stepped away from the lockers, sauntering over to him. He crouched when he was directly in front of him, one of his hands slowly moving up to Mustafa’s face and coming to rest on his chin -- the same way it had during that _fucking_ match. It was like he couldn’t get away from it.

“What a turn of events, huh…? Didn’t think I’d wind up here when I woke up this morning,” Neville mused. “Be sure to keep in mind what I told you earlier,” Neville continued. “If you want me to stop at any point, then just say so. Got that?”

At Mustafa’s nod, Neville stood back up, walking around until he was behind him. Mustafa heard the sound of a bag unzipping, but he didn’t look over his shoulder, instead choosing to look straight ahead at the door instead. Neville swore that it was locked, and he had no real reason to doubt him. He still hoped, however, that no one came along and attempted to come in -- otherwise he’d be overheard for the second time that evening, which was the _last_ thing he wanted.

His train of thought was suddenly interrupted by Neville placing one of his hands on his hip, and he finally took a look back at him. Neville was down on his knees, and Mustafa could make out a shiny substance on some of the fingers on his free hand. “What?” Neville asked. “Is there a problem?”

“No, no problem at all,” Mustafa assured, and he looked away again. “Go ahead and, uh... do what you were gonna do.”

“So long as you’re okay, then fine.”

The next thing that Mustafa felt was one of Neville’s slicked-up fingers pressing up against his entrance, pushing inside. He took a moment to adjust to the new sensation and let out a small gasp when a second finger joined the first a moment later. Neville was pumping his fingers in and out, and Mustafa moaned.

“Sounds to me like someone’s a little eager…” Neville teased as his movements slowed. “You can’t wait to be fucked by the King, hmm? Tell me, how much do you want it?”

“ _So_ much…” Mustafa whimpered, this new pace having quite the effect on him. “So, so, _so_ fucking much…”

“That’s what I thought.” Neville pushed in a third finger just then, and Mustafa did his best to keep himself from getting too noisy, swallowing down a groan. “You want me _so_ badly, you were willing to settle for a sloppy handjob in the showers… Not something I expected from someone who calls himself a prince.”

“Desperate times call for desperate -- _fuck_ \-- measures.”

Neville chuckled. “Oh believe me, I’m very well aware of what a man does when he gets desperate. I’ve been in that position a few times myself. Only difference between the two of us is that no one’s ever walked in on me.”

“You… You too?”

“Of course. What, do you think I’m the kind of man who prefers to stick it out until it’s time to go back to the hotel? You know better than anyone else just how difficult that can be.”

“Not even Kings are immune…” Great, now Mustafa had something _else_ to obsess over the next time he had a moment to himself -- the image of Neville, soaking wet, pleasuring himself to the thought of what- or _who_ ever had recently caught his attention. Was it ever _him_ at any point? Adding on the extra detail of Neville moaning out his name only made Mustafa ache even _more_ for him.

Neville removed his fingers, and after that Mustafa heard the sound of a plastic wrapper crinkling, presumably the condom. He took in a breath through his nose -- shit, this really _was_ happening, wasn’t it? The last hour or so had been such a fucking whirlwind.

“You still on board?” Neville asked him, taking hold of Mustafa’s hips again.

“I am,” he replied, clearly. With a sly smile, he continued, “What about you, huh? You ready?”

“Oh, I’ve _been_ ready.” He gave Mustafa’s thigh a little pat. “Speak up if I ever get too rough.”

“I will. Promise.”

Upon receiving Mustafa’s word, Neville started by pushing the tip inside. He moved carefully, and Mustafa grit his teeth the more that Neville spread him out. His heart was racing, and he grunted softly once he felt that Neville was fully seated in him. His eyes slid shut as he savored the sensation.

One of Neville’s hands had moved from his hip up to the middle of his back, and he was rubbing gently, almost reassuringly. It was only when he started to move, to slowly thrust in and out of him, that Mustafa allowed himself to groan -- definitely a bit too loudly, his epic quest to not be noisy during this excursion already off to a poor start. He chewed on his lower lip in a feeble attempt to keep quiet.

“Since when were you so shy, Mustafa?” Neville asked, taking note of his efforts, hand still stroking his back. “You were so bold earlier, back when you thought you were alone… Here I was thinking I was gonna get to hear more of those pretty noises of yours…”

“I-- h-hnn…” What Mustafa had been planning to say was completely forgotten when he felt Neville thrust into him just a _little_ rougher than he had been up to that point, and a breathy sound escaped him before he could stop it.

“You’re worried about being heard, huh?” Neville tapped his fingers. “I doubt that’ll happen.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“You hear how loud that crowd is, don’t you?” Neville pointed out. In the midst of all the craziness, Mustafa had forgotten that there was a live audience still very much in the venue. The crowd was loud, and the music of the wrestler currently making their entrance was even louder -- was this the main event?

“There… There’s no way they’ll hear,” Mustafa admitted, telling that to himself more than Neville.

“You got it. No need to hold back, Mustafa. Let it all out -- I _insist_.”

It was a request from the King. Mustafa knew damn well that he couldn’t say no to _that_ . As Neville’s new, rougher pace continued, Mustafa leaned back against him so he could feel him deeper than before, letting out a broken moan. “There we go… That’s more like it...” Neville cooed, hand resuming its rubbing, rhythm quickening even further. “I want to hear _everything_ … Every little last thing you’ve kept bottled up inside yourself since our match.”

Mustafa was clutching the towel, fabric bunching up in his hands. His mind was racing a mile a minute. Neville was fucking him. This wasn’t some daydream that he’d conjured up -- the King of the Cruiserweights was actually _fucking him_. It wasn’t something he ever expected to happen, but that didn’t make it any less amazing.

Mustafa’s train of thought came to a screeching halt when Neville’s hand suddenly moved up from his back and tangled itself in his hair, and his breath hitched in anticipation. He didn’t have long to wonder what Neville had planned, as a moment later his head was tugged back, causing him to shout. It was one of those things that he was absolutely _weak_ for, and Neville had scoped it out so easily.

“H-Harder…” Mustafa pleaded. “Harder, Neville, _please_ …”

“My word, Mustafa…” Neville taunted. “If I’d known how into this you were, I would’ve done it a hell of a lot sooner…”

Though he was teasing him, Neville did as he was told, yanking Mustafa’s hair again and thrusting hard into him at the same time. The combination of both pain and pleasure from both ends made Mustafa cry out. “Hmm, I might have to keep this in mind for our next match…” Neville continued with a dark chuckle. “You strike me as the kinda guy that wouldn’t mind getting a bit frisky in the ring.”

“Nn…” Mustafa whined, Neville’s words bringing him right back to his shower fantasy. “I-I am…”

“Oh? How interesting. I can’t _wait_ ‘till the next time we get a chance to lock up…”

The reminder of this erotic thought in combination with Neville’s rougher thrusts was pushing Mustafa towards the edge. “K-King…” He whimpered. “Pull my hair again, _please_ …” He knew he sounded desperate, but that’s because he fucking _was_ , and he no longer gave much of a shit about appearances.

“If that’s what my Prince wants…” Neville’s fingers stroked Mustafa’s scalp before they took hold of his hair again. “It’s exactly what he’ll _get_ …” Like it were the period on the end of the sentence, Neville jerked Mustafa’s head back, the fingernails on the hand that was still on Mustafa’s hip now digging into it.

“A-Ah-- _shit_ …!” Mustafa hadn’t expected that part at the end. He was seeing stars behind his closed eyelids, and his whole body rocked as he finally came, release spilling all over the towel underneath him.

He lowered his head, breathing deeply, heart beating hard in his chest. For a beat, Mustafa didn’t think of anything at all. His mind was blank as the adrenaline rush that had taken hold of his body ebbed away. In the background, he could make out the sound of the ring announcer -- had the main event just ended? It appeared that way. Very convenient timing.

Mustafa only started to become aware of his senses again when he heard Neville groan a moment later, myriad of expletives tumbling out from his mouth. Mustafa lazily looked over his shoulder to find him in a similar position -- head bowed down, panting, recovering. Mustafa turned away again, grunting when he felt Neville pull out.

That just happened. He and the fucking _King_ had just had sex in the middle of the locker room. And from the looks of things, they’d completely gotten away with it. The final match of the night had gone on just long enough so that they could finish. Mustafa was relieved -- both because they hadn’t been caught, and because he’d at long last been able to cum, after everything he’d been through that night.

Mustafa’s thoughts were interrupted by Neville suddenly pressing a kiss to the spot directly behind his ear, and he shuddered. It was yet another one of his weak points. “If I were you,” Neville muttered, “I’d take another shower. You’re a bit, ah, messy.”

“You’re one to talk,” Mustafa replied. “You’re just as much of a mess as I am.”

“Hm. Maybe so.” As Neville said this, he got to his feet, and Mustafa watched him cross the room and discard the condom in a trashcan by the door. “There we are. So long as none of these freaks go digging through the trash, no one will ever know.”

Mustafa sat back on his heels and remained on the floor as Neville went about getting dressed. He knew that he should be doing the same, or at the very least be taking Neville’s advice about washing up again, but he couldn’t bring himself to get up. He was admittedly a little wiped out, a fact that did not go unnoticed.

“You alright?” Neville asked, now fully dressed, hands going about buttoning and zipping his pants. “You’ve got this… _look_ on your face.”

“Just tired, that’s all,” Mustafa replied with a half-hearted shrug. “Don’t feel like gettin’ up.”

“You wanna be sitting on the floor, on that dirty goddamn _towel_ , when everyone inevitably comes around? Come on.” Neville walked over and extended his hand. Mustafa took it and allowed Neville to help him to his feet. Mustafa looked at Neville’s hand, which he probably held for _way_ too long, before he pulled his own away.

“Um…” He started, feeling awkward. “Thanks.”

“For helping you up, or fucking you?” Neville didn’t wait for an answer to that question and instead patted Mustafa’s arm. “Don’t mention it. And I mean that literally, as well -- don’t tell anyone about this.”

“Oh, _hell_ no. Wouldn’t even dream of it.”

“Good.”

Neville walked back over to his bag and zipped it up, grabbing the handle and making his way over towards the door. He unlocked it and peered out into the hallway -- empty. Mustafa once more felt relieved. Neville took one last look at Mustafa over his shoulder. “I’ll, uh… I’ll see you tomorrow, Ali.”

Mustafa nodded. “See you then.”

And with that, Neville exited the room. Mustafa waited until the door had clicked shut behind him to let out a sigh, running a hand through his tousled hair.

Mustafa may have lost his match, but in the end, he felt like he still won that night.


End file.
